Alone
by T'eyla
Summary: Nobody wants to be alone. But some people are.


**Title**: Alone

**Author**: T'eyla

**Disclaimer**: I don't own House. Nor Wilson.

**Summary**: Nobody wants to be alone. But some people are.

**Rating**: PG

**Genre**: Angst

**Beta**: TLI, Neery, Sita Z, Julie

**Warnings**: Pre-slash (House/Wilson), rather sad fic

**AN**: This is my first fic for this fandom, so please be kind. And please leave a comment to let me know whether I should write more House fanfiction or rather stay away from this fandom ;).

Edit 03/04/07: As Jen very rightfully pointed out in her review, I had my timing off a little. Thanks for pointing this out Jen - I fixed it :).

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(1) - _November '07_

Maya had never been able to understand why there were cars on the American market that could go over one hundred and fifty miles an hour despite the fact that because of the speed limit the buyers wouldn't be able to enjoy the full capacity of their vehicle. She had also never understood how the American government could be naive enough to think that if a person had one hundred and eighty horse powers at their disposal, they would be concerned enough about their safety not to make use of them. She'd thought that politicians might have at least realized somewhere along the way that people couldn't be trusted.

She was driving in her husband's Volvo S60 down Brunswick Pike, the tacho needle hovering just above the fifty mph mark. Usually, Maya tried to be a good girl, but right now, she only wanted to get home before dark. She hadn't been feeling all that great this morning, and a long day at work had done the rest.

Maybe it was the thin film of exhaustion that slightly blurred her vision, or maybe it was the way shapes seemed to merge into one another in the dim light of dusk. Maybe she had been looking at a particularly intriguing cloud in the sky. Later, nobody could tell exactly why Maya hadn't stopped at the bright red stop light. At least the upset driver of the blue jeep claimed it had been red; it had been red, and his had been green, and it all went so fast and he was so terribly sorry.

**-------------------------**

(2) - _May '07_

House pushed the door to Wilson's office open, as usual not bothering to knock. His friend was sitting behind the desk, the well-known expression of long-suffering patience on his face as he looked up from his paperwork. House ignored it, also as usual.

"You're not seriously considering doing it again, are you?" He formulated the question with as much aggressiveness as he could muster, which was quite a lot.

Wilson didn't even flinch. "Doing what again?" he asked, turning back to his work.

With an audible clonk, House leaned his cane against Wilson's desk and limped over to where Wilson's coat was hanging on the wall. He began looking through its pockets, well aware of Wilson's eyes on his back. "You wanna hear something interesting?" he said in his best conversational tone. "At lunch, I overheard the cafeteria girls gossiping." He pulled his hand from the right pocket of Wilson's coat and sifted through the papers and bills he had produced. When he didn't find what he was looking for, he went over to Wilson's desk and began to pull open the drawers, seemingly oblivious to Wilson's disapproving frown. "Seems like there's a new juicy piece of information on the black rumor market," he continued, then let out a triumphant grunt as he pulled Wilson's wallet from the top drawer. He smiled at the oncologist. "If you believe what Melinda from the kitchen staff is telling Jolene from maintenance, then Ms. Hamilton from the lab staff has been proposed to. It's weird, you know," House continued without a pause while flipping through the wallet's various compartments, "somehow I'm sure I know that name. I just can't quite remember where I heard it for the first time - ah!"

With a flourish, House produced a bill from Wilson's wallet and gave it a small shake, making the paper rustle. He frowned down at it for a moment, then raised his head to look at his friend, incredulity fighting with annoyance and amusement in his expression. He shook his head. "You really did it again, didn't you?"

Wilson, who hadn't said a word through House's quick-search of his office, sighed and dropped his pen onto his desk blotter. "Yes, House, I did. And I must say, I find your doubts both wounding and discouraging."

"I _hope_ they're discouraging as hell," House said, then put the wallet and the bill back onto the desktop and fished around the table for his cane. "You proposing to that woman is either a sign of a late psychotic break or of an early onset of senile dementia." He limped around the table and let himself drop onto the couch. "You can't be serious about this, Wilson."

Wilson picked up his wallet and slid the bill back into the money compartment. "Why not?" he asked.

House rolled his eyes. "I am not going to point out the obvious and tell you that a man who can proudly call himself a triple-divorcee should maybe think twice about tying the knot yet again. You've known that woman for four months, Wilson. Been dating her for three. Been screwing her for two. If you want to prove to her that this is serious for you, don't you think something a little less drastic would do the trick? Move in with her, buy her some jewelry, women like that sort of stuff."

Wilson sighed yet again and shook his head. "It's not about proving anything, House. I love her. Besides, she's Catholic."

"Oh, _that_ explains it. Catholic girls you have to marry after four months at the latest. Otherwise they expire and produce a nasty smell in your fridge."

"I meant-" Wilson broke off and stared at House in exasperation. "Forget it." He picked up his pen and turned back to his files.

House frowned. "You meant what?" The way Wilson was deliberately not looking him added fuel to the fire of curiosity. "Your ears are turning red, Jimmy. You can't fool me. What did you want to say?"

"Go away, House." There wasn't much fire to the boot. House ignored it; actually, he barely registered that Wilson had spoken. The small wheels of his brain were clicking, and a rather unpleasant grin began to spread on his face.

"Why, _Jimmy_!" he exclaimed. "Who'd have thought!" He got up and limped over to the desk, excitement and glee clear on his face. "When were you going to tell me?"

Wilson stubbornly refused to look up, but he kept the pen poised without moving it. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said. House actually sniggered.

"Someone wasn't careful," he sang, then poked Wilson with his cane. "And here I was thinking you of all people would have enough experience to avoid those kinds of screw-ups."

With an exasperated sigh, Wilson threw his pen back on the desk and leaned back to look at House. "It wasn't-" He caught himself and frowned, then rolled his eyes. "I admit it wasn't planned or anything, but- " He sighed and shrugged. "Maybe it's not such a bad thing."

House scrutinized his friend for a moment. "No?" he asked then, and Wilson looked up. House grinned at him. "Can I be Uncle Greg?"

Wilson snorted. "You can be Uncle Greg Who Will Never Play With My Kid Unsupervised. If Maya even lets you come near him at all."

House raised his eyebrows. "Him?"

"Him. Her." Wilson shrugged. "I have no idea."

House nodded, and his grin lost some of its venom, making it look almost kind. "It's about time I met her."

"Who?"

"_Her._" House rolled his eyes. "Your girlfriend. The poor knocked-up Catholic girl that has no choice but to marry you because little Jimmy didn't put on his raincoat."

Wilson looked as if he were about to say something, but then thought better of it. Instead, he shrugged. "You know her. She works in the lab. Does the cultures, mostly."

"I've _seen_ her; doesn't mean I know her. Even though I have to admit she's got a nice little ass. Pity you can't really make it out in those baggy lab tech coats."

"House, you are a terrible person." Wilson didn't sound at all disgusted; most of what was in his voice seemed to be amusement mixed with affection. "Go torture somebody else."

And because it was a nice day outside, and his leg had barely bothered him all day, and maybe because part of him wanted to believe that the hope he'd seen in Wilson's eyes wasn't entirely misguided after all, House agreed, leaving Wilson to his paperwork and returning to his office to kill the time until General Hospital started at four.

**-------------------------**

(3) - _June '07_

"House?"

House blinked and raised his eyebrows at Wilson, who had just interrupted him in mid-sentence. Wilson wasn't looking at him but staring at something over at the cafeteria counter behind House's right shoulder.

"What?"

Wilson looked at him, using one of his most pleading and urgent expression. "Please do me the favor and be nice to her. I don't want this to go like it did with Julie."

Before House could react in any way, there was a clatter and another tray was set down on his and Wilson's table. "Hey boys," a voice came from above, and as he looked up, House saw Maya Hamilton smiling an admittedly sweet smile at her husband in spe. She sat down and turned around. Their eyes met.

"Hey Dr. House," she said brightly. "It's nice to finally meet you. I've heard a lot about you." The standard meeting phrase was accompanied by an impish glint in her green eyes, and House decided he liked her better than Julie. That first impression was reinforced when she didn't extend a hand to greet him.

"I am sure you have," he said. "I'd love to fulfill your expectations, but I'm afraid I can't. Wilson here told me I had to be nice." He smiled and picked up his cutlery, from the corner of his eyes seeing Maya exchange a glance with Wilson.

"Oh, did he?" House had to give it to her that her tone didn't sound any less amiable than before. "That's funny, because just the other day, he gave _me_ a set of instructions on how to deal with _you_. I told him not to worry. As a kid, I used to hang out with the geeks and the future sociopaths."

House thought that maybe he even liked her more than Jodie. "Now I know why she likes you, Jimmy," he said, and Wilson took the jab with a shrug and a smile.

They turned to their meals, continuing the conversation. Now and then, House threw a curve ball, but she hit them with grace and wit, and the only thing that spoiled the fun a little was that Wilson seemed so relieved that House and Maya were getting along that he didn't get annoyed with them even as they formed an alliance to tease him. Over dessert, Wilson's pager went off, and he hurriedly excused himself, giving Maya a smile and House a warning stare. House answered with his most innocent expression, knowing that it would serve to unsettle Wilson for the rest of the day, and then he and Maya were alone.

For a few moments, neither of them said anything, and even though he watched out for them, House didn't see her giving him hidden glances when she thought he wouldn't notice. After a moment, she picked up her glass and took a sip, then turned her eyes on him.

"Working in the same building, you'd think I'd've run across you a couple of times. So far, I had to rely solely on rumors, though."

"I usually don't hang out with the lab crowd," House said, and Maya smiled.

"No," she said. "You leave that to your staff."

"That's why I have them in the first place. That, and the constant coffee supply from Cameron."

Maya smiled briefly and then fixed him with a scrutinizing stare. "How long have you known James?" she asked.

House considered for a moment. "A little over nine years," he said then. "Not counting the one and a half we just co-existed as co-workers."

"So you knew two of his three wives." It wasn't a question, so House only answered her gaze. She was silent for a moment, then asked, "Why do you think it didn't work out?"

House contemplated the question for a moment. Spilling Wilson's private business to his fiance behind his back wasn't exactly the loyal thing to do, but considering Wilson's history, she had a right to ask. A right to know, actually. He would have asked the same thing.

"He picked the wrong women," he said. "Too needy. Wilson loves taking care of people, but he forgets that sometimes, he needs someone to take care of him. His wives didn't do that." Their eyes locked, and House thought Maya had gotten the silent warning. She didn't seem too worried, though.

"What about kids?" she asked. "Three wives, you'd think at some point, he'd have wanted to make a family out of the marriage."

House shrugged. "I guess it just never happened," he said. "Wilson's careful. He wouldn't want to put a kid through a divorce."

Maya nodded. "I'd figured something like that." She gathered her stuff on her tray and began to get up. "Well, Dr. House," she said with a smile, "it has been most entertaining. I hope we can do this again in the future."

House nodded and watched her leave. He picked up his cup and noisily slurped the rest of his soda through the straw, making the people at the table next to him throw him indignant glances. When he was finished, he got up and left as well, heading for his office. He felt like torturing his minions a little. Maybe, if he poked and annoyed them enough, they'd go and find a case for him. Right now, he felt as if he could solve anything.

**-------------------------**

(4) - _September '07_

House was watching _Trading Spaces_ on mute and listening to Eric Clapton singing Bessie Smith's old song about opportunists and hypocrites when there was a knock at his door. He didn't move, and after a few moments, he heard the sound of a key being turned and the door opening. He reached out and pushed the newspaper off the couch, creating a space big enough for a person to sit.

"Hey Wilson," he called without turning around. "When you grab a beer, get me one, too."

A few minutes later, a brown beer bottle was pushed into his hand, and Wilson flopped down on the couch beside him, letting out a relieved sigh and putting his feet up on the coffee table.

House opened his beer, flicking the cap across the room, and took a swig. He had just opened his mouth to say something when Wilson held up a hand, making a shushing sound.

"I like this part," he said in a low voice.

They sat in silence until Clapton had said his line about spotting this one, then House grabbed the remote of the stereo and turned it off. He'd always hated _Layla_.

"Do you know that it took me years to figure out that this song is the same as the one from _Journeyman_?" Wilson said with an absent smile, his eyes on the TV screen.

"Then you weren't listening," House said, and Wilson laughed softly.

After another stretch of silence, in which House turned the TV volume up, finished his beer and took his evening pill, Wilson finally spoke up.

"She didn't kick me out."

"Ah," House said. "You just decided you'd show up here at eleven-thirty pm, drink a few beers and walk home?"

"It was a mutual agreement."

"I didn't know something like that was possible in a marriage."

Wilson sighed. "Dr. Wiley tells us she's never had a woman with such screwed up hormone levels. She can't do anything except what she's already doing. Maya suggested I get out of harm's way before she strangles me and will have to kill herself out of guilt once she comes to her senses."

House couldn't help but snort. "Ah, the bliss of domestic life," he said. Wilson smiled and yawned. House shook his head and returned his attention to the TV screen. "I want pancakes for breakfast tomorrow," he said.

Wilson nodded. "Sure, whatever you say."

House turned the TV volume off and the stereo back on, skimming through the CD changer until he found some quiet piano blues. After a while, Wilson began to snore, and House turned the volume up. _Trading Spaces_ had been replaced by a rerun of _Nashville Star_, and House entertained himself with lip-reading the contestants and trying to name song, writer and most important cover versions before the title was shown at the bottom of the screen.

**-------------------------**

(5) - _November '07_

House was sitting at his desk in his office, holding an abdominal CT against the light and frowning at the cross sections. Wilson had asked him to take a look, claiming he had a hunch but couldn't find anything on the scan. Wilson was right, something did look off, but House couldn't quite put a finger on it, either. Yet.

He frowned at the grayish shadow that was the right liver lobe and squinted, willing the information that was hovering just out of reach of his conscious mind to make itself tangible, when a hustle in the corridor broke his concentration. Annoyed, he looked up, just in time to see Wilson all but fly by his office in a full run, coat billowing. House blinked, then heard the door to the staircase bang shut. He frowned and groped for his pager.

A couple minutes later, his phone rang, the display indicating it was one of his minions reporting back from recon. House picked up, and heard Cameron's breathless voice on the other end.

"House, you'd better come down to the ER right away."

House noted her worried, almost frantic tone, put it in relation to Wilson's sudden display of panicked rushing, and a feeling very much like dread spread in the pit of his stomach. "What's going on?" he asked.

"It's Maya, House. She was in a car accident. They're working on her in Trauma 2. It doesn't look good."

House dropped the receiver into the cradle and groped for his cane, wishing he still had the wheelchair. It would have gotten him down to the ER a lot faster.

--

Usually, House avoided the ER. Too crowded, too many people in too much of a rush. Too big a chance of getting run over by a trauma crew wheeling in a patient. And too many panicked, teary wives/husbands/daughters/sons/cousins hovering outside the windowed trauma room doors, wide, shell-shocked eyes watching the trauma surgeons and ER doctors trying to save their loved ones in the middle of a huge, bloody mess. House didn't feel sympathy for them - he was a doctor, not the Good Samaritan - but it was a fact of human nature that watching other people in extreme emotional distress triggered anything from embarrassment to pronounced unease in a person. He saw no reason to expose himself to that.

When he arrived on the first floor and saw his friend Wilson in the exact same position as aforementioned wives/husbands/daughters/sons/cousins standing outside Trauma 2 and twisting his hands in nervous knots, House's first impulse was to turn and run - or rather, limp - as far away as possible. He ignored it - he wasn't the Good Samaritan, but neither was he the completely mindless, selfish bastard he liked everybody to believe he was, at least not where Wilson was concerned - and went over to his friend, standing a couple of feet behind him and waiting for Wilson to notice him. It didn't take him long.

"She just left," Wilson said in a quivery, unsteady voice without turning around. "Like twenty minutes ago. I told her I'd take the bus; I still had to finish some paperwork..."

He trailed off, and House took a step closer, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder, feeling tense muscles flex under his palm. "What happened?" he asked.

Wilson shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "Some kind of car accident. She- they said there was head trauma-"

Wilson broke off and clenched his hands to fists. House gave his shoulder a light squeeze, trying to ignore his instincts that told him to get out of there, because there were going to be emotions, strong and ugly and terrifying. Instead, he looked through the wire netting of the window in the trauma room doors, and what he saw didn't ease his mind at all. On the IV stand, there was saline and a packet of platelets, which meant that she'd gotten at least five 0-neg's already. _Head wounds bleed a lot_, he thought. As the ER docs were moving around, he could see two chest tubes and a ventilator, and the feeling of dread began to slowly dissolve to be replaced by sadness and resignation. She wasn't going to make it. He knew that Wilson saw it, too; he was clutching his hands together in a way that couldn't possibly _not_ hurt and was biting his lower lip, hard.

Sure enough, while they were watching, one of the ER docs suddenly stepped back and slipped off her gloves and yellow gown, letting them drop to the floor which was already littered with bloody cotton swabs and once-sterile plastic packaging. She came towards the door, and House could hear Wilson's breath catch. He felt the other man trying to move backwards and tightened his grip on Wilson's shoulder, keeping him in place.

The door opened, and the ER doc, Dr. Pamela May, stepped into the hallway, wearing her sincerest I've-got-some-bad-news expression. House could feel Wilson start to shake a little under his fingers.

"Dr. Wilson, I'm-"

"Please, is she going to be okay?" Wilson's voice was choked, and House knew that there would be crying, of course there would be. He pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes at Dr. May, daring her to give Wilson some stupid, consoling, meaningless phrase.

She knew better than that. "I'm sorry, Dr. Wilson. There is nothing we can do for your wife."

Wilson's breath hitched, but other than that, he only closed his eyes for a moment and did that thing with his hands again. He had probably figured that part out for himself already. "What- what about the baby?" he asked.

"We'll need your consent for an emergency C-section," May said. "The baby's old enough to have a fighting chance, and there was no direct trauma to the abdomen."

_Barely old enough_, House thought, and of course Wilson knew that as well. House saw him close his eyes, and there were the tears, leaking from under his shut eyelids.

"Do the C-section," he said, and May nodded, not wasting any time but returning into the trauma room immediately, shouting orders and grabbing another yellow gown from one of the nurses.

Wilson's breath was going fast, he was almost hyperventilating, and House tried to pull him towards the chairs that were standing against the wall across the corridor. Wilson wouldn't move, though, didn't even seem aware of what House was trying to do. He was staring at the scene that was unfolding before him in the trauma room, not even blinking despite the tears.

"Please," he whispered. "Please."

**-------------------------**

(6) - _November '07_

Six hours after he had paged his three fellows and told them to find out whether there was anything noteworthy going on in the emergency room, House was standing outside the glass wall of the NICU, leaning on his cane and watching the figure that was sitting beside one of the beds further back in the room. The shaking of Wilson's shoulders had stopped, so had the restless shifting. He was sitting completely still, his head in his hands and his eyes on the small form before him in the incubator.

House had stayed with Wilson while they'd performed the C-section, had even gone into the trauma room with him, where Maya had been lying on the table, the ET tube still in her mouth but not connected to the ventilator anymore. He had allowed Wilson to steady himself on his shoulder, gritting his teeth as the pressure had forced him to shift and put too much weight on his right leg. He had even found a few consoling words; nothing creative, but something to say while Wilson had stood there beside the table trying to swallow his sobs.

But he hadn't been able to go into the NICU with him. He had tried to convince Wilson not to go in there either, but naturally without success. He'd spoken to May, and knew that the chances were slim to none that the kid would survive; even slimmer to none that it would survive without lasting damage. Twenty-seven weeks just weren't quite enough. Wilson knew that, too.

_And yet here he is,_ House thought. _Watching his kid die._

His leg was throbbing painfully; it was late, and he'd been on his feet for too long. Without taking his eyes off his friend, House fished the pill bottle from his pocket and took one, the familiar bitter taste in his throat doing little to reassure him. When he heard the hesitant click of high heels on the hallway linoleum, he pretended not to notice and didn't turn around until Cuddy was standing beside him, her hands clasped behind her back. There was no trace of the usual mischief on her face. House missed it. It always made her look a lot younger.

They stood in silence for a few minutes, until Cuddy shifted and looked up at him. "Someone should probably go in there," she said. House didn't turn around.

"It's going to die," he said. From the corner of his eyes he could see Cuddy nod.

"Is it a boy or a girl?"

House gripped his cane a little tighter. "Does it matter?"

Cuddy didn't give him the third degree about being insensitive, and House missed that, too. Instead, she only sighed. "I can't go in there," she said quietly. "I'm his boss."

"Lame excuse." He noticed her flinch, and that did reassure him a little. Being Cuddy, though, she bounced back almost immediately.

"Go in there," she said, looking at him. "Be his friend. God knows he needs one right now."

With that, she left. House flexed his fingers around his cane, listening to his own heartbeat while continuing to watch his friend. Wilson had reached out and put his hand on the edge of one of the holes in the incubator.

House tightened the muscles in his right thigh and pressed his lips together as a sharp stab of pain sliced through the softening layer the Vicodin had created. When the pain had ebbed away, he limped to the NICU's slide door and stepped inside. There were blue protection gowns on a row of hooks beside the door, and he shrugged into one of the L-sized ones. Then he crossed the room and stood beside Wilson.

"Hey," he said quietly.

Wilson looked up, and House noticed that for now, his red-rimmed eyes were dry.

"Hey," he answered in a hoarse voice. "What are you still doing here? It's late. You should go home."

House used his cane to pull up a chair and sat down. "And miss out on the cafeteria breakfast later on? No way."

It was a lame joke, and it didn't even make much sense, but Wilson still pulled the corners of his mouth up in a small smile before he looked back down at the incubator. House followed his gaze, and his eyes settled on the small child that was lying in the glass box. At twenty-seven weeks, it looked pretty much like a full-term baby, except for the size and the waxy skin. A quick look at the chart at the end of the bed told him that Baby Wilson was a girl and - something not uncommon with NICU babies - that the parents hadn't settled on a name yet.

Wilson had followed his eyes, but didn't look too closely at the chart, turning his eyes to the floor instead. "Her kidneys aren't working properly," he said quietly. "The peds diagnosed RDS and IUGR. She-" His voice failed, and he fell silent. House was still looking at the chart, and saw that the diagnoses Wilson had mentioned were only the tip of the iceberg. Not that those wouldn't have been enough to bring her survival chances down to a worrisome level.

"She's going to die," Wilson whispered, and even though House had said the exact same thing not five minutes ago to Cuddy, now he almost winced at the words. He said nothing, though, and Wilson didn't seem to expect anything, keeping his eyes on the floor as he continued. "May told me that if Maya... if it hadn't been a C-section, she might have made it at twenty-seven weeks, but like this... " Wilson looked up, and his brown eyes shone in the harsh overhead lights of the NICU. "I've watched many people die, House, but..."

"She's your kid," House said quietly. Wilson drew in a breath and covered his eyes with his hand for a moment. When he looked up again, there were fresh tear tracks on his cheeks.

"I..." His voice broke, and he swallowed. "It probably sounds really selfish, me saying this now, but..." Wilson licked his lips, and met House's eyes. "I don't think I can take this, House. I don't..." Wilson's voice dropped to a whisper. "I don't want to be alone."

House looked at Wilson, his gaze held by his friend's dark, desperate eyes, and felt his heart beat high in his throat. He licked his lips, for once in his life not finding any words. After a moment, Wilson turned his eyes away and looked back down at the floor.

House pushed his chair closer to Wilson's and reached out, carefully sliding a hand around the other man's shoulders. When Wilson didn't resist, he pulled him in a little closer.

"You're not alone, Jimmy," he said quietly. "You'll never be alone. I promise."

--

Baby Wilson died at 5:56 am on November 16th, 2007. She was buried under the name of Raphaela on November 18th together with her mother Maya. Many people came to pay their condolences to the grieving father and husband.

On November 19th, Gregory House showed up at James Wilson's apartment and told his friend that he'd gotten both of them a week off work, and that he was open for any vacation plans Wilson suggested, as long as he wouldn't have to spend his seven days of freedom alone. He almost revoked this admittedly rather reckless announcement when Wilson suggested a trip to the cold northern regions of Canada, but then swallowed his protests, telling himself that it were only seven days. He knew he would be cold and miserable, but it would be worth it. After all, he was miserable most of the time, anyway, and if freezing his butt off for seven days meant that Wilson would be okay, then he decided he could do it. And besides, House had always wanted to see a live moose.

**-------------------------**

Please let me know what you think!


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